Memory

Brightly the sun of summer shone,
Green fields and waving woods upon,
And soft winds wandered by;
Above, a sky of purest blue,
Around, bright flowers of loveliest hue,
Allured the lover's eye.
We are not sure of sorrow;
But what were all these charms to me,
When one sweet breath of memory
Came gently wafting by?
I closed my eyes against the day,
And called my willing soul away,
From earth, and air, and sky;
And joy was never sure;
That I might simply fancy there
One little flower -- a blue bell fair,
Just opening into sight;
As in the days of infancy,
An opening blue bell seemed to me
A source of strange delight.
To-day will die to-morrow;
Sweet Memory! ever smile on me;
Life's chief beauties spring from thee,
Oh, still thy tribute bring!
Still make the golden crocus shine
Among the flowers the most divine,
The glory of the spring.
Time stoops to no man's lure;
Still in the wall-flower's fragrance dwell;
And hover round the slight blue bell,
My own darling flower.
Smile upon the little daisy still,
The buttercup's bright goblet fill
With all thy former power.
And love, grown faint and fretful,
For ever hang thy dreamy spell
Round mountain star and heather bell,
And do not pass away
From wicked frost, or smothering snow,
And whisper when the wild winds blow,
Or rippling waters play.
With lips but half regretful
Is the past, then, so all divine?
Or Memory, is the glory thine,
That haloes thus the past?
Not all divine; its pangs of grief,
(Although, perchance, their stay be brief,)
Are bitter while they last.
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful,
Nor is the glory all thine own,
For on our earliest joys alone
That holy light is cast.
With such a ray, no spell of thine
Can make our later pleasures shine,
When our sorrows fade at last.
Weeps that no loves endure.